Then he bent over the bitch that lay with her litter on a sack by the hearth, and picked up one of the puppies. It squealed as he held it to the light—its eyes were only just opened. The mother gave a low growl. Olav had bought the dog but a little while before and had paid so much that his neighbours had again shaken their heads at his grand ways. But it was a special breed of dog, with hanging ears, soft as silk, and a short coat—keen-scented, excellent sporting dogs. Olav handled the puppies with satisfaction: it looked as if they would take after their mother, all five of them. He laughingly laid one in his wife’s lap, amused at the dog, which now growled more threateningly, but dared not fly at him.
The tiny, round-bellied creature, still soft of bone, crawled and scrambled, trying to lick Ingunn’s hands. It was so weak and jointless—all at once she felt unwell, a lump came into her throat.
“Let its mother have it back,” she begged feebly.
Olav looked at her, stopped laughing, and laid the puppy back beside the bitch.
Torre was past and the month of Gjö came and froze the fiord—the ice stretched far to the south of Jölund.2 The days began to lengthen and grow lighter. The frost fog crept up the fiord from farther out where there was open sea, and when clear days succeeded, with blue sky and sunshine, the whole world glistened with rime. Olav and Björn went out hunting together.
Ingunn’s only thought was how long yet would she be able to conceal it. Her tears burst forth—an impotent despair she knew that now indeed she had no need of concealment: was she not Olav’s wife in Hestviken, where she was to bear him a child in the old manor that had been the seat of his kin from time out of mind? And yet she would fain have crept underground and hidden herself.
She saw that Olav had guessed how it was with her. Still she kept going and could not bring herself to utter a word of it. She kept the fast like the others, though her chest was drawn with hunger so that it gave her pain. She noticed that Olav stole a glance at her more and more often, with something of wonder and covert anxiety in his looks. Afterwards he would remain silent a long while. Her heart was filled with dread when she saw him thus, brooding and wondering about her. But she did not get herself to say anything.
Then there came a Sunday; they had just come home from church and were alone in the room for a moment. Olav seated himself on the bench; as she was hurrying past he caught her by the wrist and held her.
“Ingunn mine—you must do a kindness to Olav Ingolfsson and tell him of it. I believe he will scarce live through the spring. You know how eagerly he awaits it!”
Igunn bowed her head; her face was red as fire.
“Yes,” she whispered obediently.
Then her husband drew her to him and would set her on his knee.
“How is it with you?” he asked in a low voice. “You are so unhappy, Ingunn? Does he plague you so ill, this little guest of yours? Or are you afraid?”
“Afraid!” For an instant the young wife seemed to flare up, like her old headstrong self of former days. “You must surely know how it is—Never have you been anything but good to me—and now I must think day after day that I am not worth it!”
“Be silent!” He squeezed her hand hard. Ingunn saw Olav’s face shut up. When he spoke again, his voice was forced, though he made an effort to speak calmly and gently:
“Think not of that, Ingunn, which we do much better to forget. ‘Twere foolish indeed of us to awaken memories that—that—And you know full well that I love you so dearly that I could never have the heart to be aught but good to you.”
“Oh, I should be worth still less, if I could forget—!”
She sank on her knees before him, hid her head in her husband’s arms, and kissed his hand. Olav quickly withdrew it, leaped up, and raised his wife to her feet. Ingunn bent backward in his arms, looked into his eyes, and said in a kind of defiance:
“You are fond of me—ay, God knows I see it—but I believe, Olav, that had I offered to treat you as of old—with an overweening, fanciful humour, claiming to have my own way in all things—I scarce believe you would have suffered it in me, or loved me so much, after what I have done to you—”
“Oh, be quiet now!” He let her go.
“I often wish you had treated me harshly, as you threatened that time—”
“That you do not wish,” he said with the cold little smile she knew so well from old days.
But then he drew her passionately to him, hid her head on his breast.
“Do not weep,” he begged.
“I am not weeping.” Olav raised her face and looked into it—he felt strangely ill at ease. He would much rather she had wept.
In the time that followed, a kind of paralysing dread crept over Olav again and again. He had a feeling that all had been in vain. In vain the payments he had made to buy peace for himself and her, in vain that he had sunk his own bitterness to the bottom of his soul and quenched it with all the old streams of his love: his life with her was a dear old habit of his childhood; when he took her in his arms, he recalled the first rapture of his life. Never had he let her see that he remembered her—weakness, he called it now. And now he was at his wit’s end, recognizing that against the sense of shame that gnawed at her heart he could do nothing.
And when he saw her in this state, he himself could not avoid the thought—it was not her first child.
During their first months together at Hestviken he had been so pleased with her quiet bearing, knowing it was happiness that made her so meek and gentle a wife. But now it hurt him. For she had spoken the truth—had she been as in old days, when she would have her own way and always expected him to give in to her—he would not have brooked that of her now.
Then he straightened himself, as though shouldering his burden anew. At home he always appeared calm and contented, he had a cheerful answer when anyone spoke to him, and put a good face on the prospect of the old stock sending out fresh shoots. He was affectionate toward his wife and tried to console himself: Ingunn had never been strong, and this sickliness must prey heavily on her meagre powers. No doubt her melancholy would pass off when she grew well again.
Old Olav Ingolfsson had failed greatly during the spring, and Olav Audunsson tended him as well as he could. He often lay at night in the closet with his kinsman; at any moment the old man might require help of one kind or another. A little oil-lamp burned all night long, and the younger Olav lay on the floor in a leather bag. When old Olav could not sleep he would babble by the hour together, and now it was always of their kin: how possessions and prosperity had come into the hands of the Hestvik men, and how they had been lost again.
One night, as they lay talking of such things, young Olav asked his namesake about Foulbeard. All he knew of this man was but scraps—and these scraps were scarcely more agreeable, he thought, than what he himself remembered of the madman.
Old Olav said: “I have not told you much of him before—but maybe you ought to have knowledge of this too, since you are now to be the head of our line. Is your wife asleep?” he asked. “’Twere better she did not hear this.
“It was truly spoken of him that he acted cruelly and faithlessly toward—many women. And many spoke ill of me, because I was always in company with Torgils, I who was intended for the priesthood. But Torgils I have loved more dearly than any man on earth—and never have I been able to understand his evil life, for I never saw that he sought the company of women or paid court to young maids, when we were at feasts and merrymakings. And when the talk fell upon women and loose living, as you know will often happen among idle young men in hall, Torgils would sit in silence with a little scornful smile—and never have I heard him use immodest or lecherous speech. He was rather sparing of words and grave in all his dealings, a bold, manly, and valorous man. I never knew him have any friends, save me—but we had been as foster-brothers from childhood. I grieved at his evil living—but I could never bring myself to say a word about it to my cousin. Father reproved him often with hard words—he was so fo
nd of Torgils, he too: he would remind him of the day that awaits us all, when we must answer to our Lord for all our deeds—‘It had been better for you, Torgils,’ my father often said, ‘if you had been sunk in the fiord with a millstone about your neck, as the inhuman wretches did to God’s beloved Saint Halvard when he sought to protect a poor, simple woman—but you do outrage to such poor and simple ones.’ Torgils never said a word in return. There was something secret about Torgils: I never saw him go up to a woman, sit down by her, and talk to her but I noticed that she was uneasy so soon as he looked at her—he must have had an evil power in his eyes. He had a kind of power over men too. For when King Skule’s cause was lost, Torgils lent assistance to the Bishop—and afterwards he was made captain of the Bishop’s men. But more than once the Bishop was minded to turn him away on account of the ugly rumours. When the matter of Astrid Bessesdatter and Herdis of Stein came out, the Bishop threatened him with excommunication and outlawry and with expulsion from the town—but nothing came of it.
“It was at Yule, seven years after King Skule’s fall, that Torgils had been at home in Hestviken, and in Lent Besse and his sons and Olav, my uncle, came to Oslo, and it was agreed that Torgils should marry Astrid as soon as might be after the fast. That was the only time Torgils spoke to me of such matters—he said he would stay here and not go home to his wife; but Besse and his children were such good folk that there was no way out, he must take Astrid. But I guessed that he had taken a dislike to her. Never have I been able to understand how a man can have the heart to bring ruin upon such a young child, when he did not even like her better than that. But Torgils replied that he could not help turning against them always—God be merciful to his soul.
“He met Herdis Karlsdatter just after, and then he did not go home to his own betrothal feast. Olav was beside himself with shame and anger over his son’s behaviour, but Torgils said he would rather fly the country than let himself be pressed into taking a wife whom he could not bear to set eyes on. When the rumours got abroad about Torgils and Herdis, it was yet worse; they both begged and threatened him, Uncle Olav and Father and the Bishop, but Torgils heeded them not at all. Astrid Bessesdatter was not surpassingly fair, but she was young, red and white—Herdis Karlsdatter was fat and yellow of skin, thirteen years older than Torgils, and eight children had she borne, so no one could understand it, but folk thought that Torgils had been bewitched. I myself thought it must be the Devil—that he had now got Torgils wholly into his power, after he had treated the young maid, Astrid, so heartlessly. I told him this, but then his face turned so white and strange that I was sheer afraid, and he answered me: ‘I think you are right, kinsman. But now it is too late.’ And all my prayers and persuasion were as though I had preached to stocks and stones. Some days after came the news that Jon of Stein, Herdis’s husband, was dead.”
Olav Audunsson started up in his sleeping-bag—stared at the old man in horror, but said nothing. Olav Ingolfsson was silent for a moment, then he said in a low voice, as though it irked him:
“He was on his way home from a gathering, had been absent for the night, and two of his own faithful men were with him—he fell right down by the roadside and died at once. Jon was old and weak—God knows I surely think neither Herdis nor Torgils had a hand in this. But you may well suppose that much was said when it was rumoured that Torgils would marry the widow. Olav Ribbung said he wished the sons of Besse had cut down Torgils before this happened, and he declared that so long as Astrid was left unmarried with Torgils’s son, he would not suffer Torgils to offend her kinsmen yet worse by marrying any other. But if it were true that his son had ended by loving a married woman, he would himself pray God to smite Torgils with the hardest of punishments if he did not turn from his sinful life, do penance, and put away his leman. And ere he would let Torgils marry her, his father would bind him as a madman.
“Not long after, Herdis died suddenly. I was with Torgils when the news came. But I cannot tell you how Torgils looked—first his eyes grew so big that I have never seen the like, then they shrank in again and the whole man shrivelled and faded. But he said nothing, and in the days that followed he went about and performed his duty as though nothing had happened—but I felt that something was brewing, and when I was not at church I did not move from his side, day or night. I noticed too that he wished me to be with him—but when he slept I know not; he lay down in his clothes and neither washed nor shaved himself, and he began to be strange in his manner and unlike himself to look at.
“Herdis was buried in the church at Aker. That day week the Bishop sent Torgils up to Aker, and I went with him. It was the eve of a holy-day and the tenant of the nuns’ farm offered us baths; then I got him to shave off his foul yellow stubble, and I cut his hair. ‘Ay, now I am ready,’ said Torgils—and an uncanny feeling came over me, for he smiled so queerly—and I saw that his face was ravaged and wasted, and skin and hair were yet paler than before, but his eyes had grown so big, and they too had paled till they were of the colour of milk and water. He was handsome, for all that—but he little resembled a living man as he sat motionless on the bench, with a fixed stare.
“At last I lay down on the bed awhile, and then I fell asleep. But I was awakened by a knocking at the door, three blows, and I started up.
“Torgils had risen and moved as a man walks in his sleep. ‘I am sent for—’
“I rushed up and took hold of him—God knows what I thought at that moment—but he pushed me aside, and again there was a knocking at the door.
“ ‘Let me go,’ said Torgils. ‘I must go out.’
“I was a tall man, much taller than Torgils, and very strong I was in my youth, though never so strong as Torgils—he was thickset and small of limb like you and had immense bodily strength. I threw my arms around him and tried to hold him, but he gave me a look, and I knew that he was beyond human aid.
“ ‘It is Herdis,’ he said, and again there were three blows on the door. ‘Let me go, Olav. Never did I promise the others aught, but her I have promised to follow, living or dead.’
“Then he flung me from him, so that I fell on the floor, and he went out; but I got on my feet, grasped my axe, and ran after him. God forgive me, had I taken my book or the crucifix in my hand, it had gone better, but I took no time to think. I was young—more of a warrior yet than a priest at heart, maybe; I put more trust in the sharp steel when it came to the push.
“When I came out into the yard I saw them by the castle gate. ’Twas moonlight, but open weather with driving clouds and the ground was dark, for we had no snow lying in the lowlands that year. But it was just light enough for me to see them before me out in the field as I came through the gate—the dead woman went first, and she was like a shred of mist, scarce touching the ground, and after her ran Torgils, and I followed. At that moment the moon peeped out and I saw that Herdis stopped, and I guessed her purpose—so I called to her: ‘If he promised to follow you, he must—but he has not promised to go before you.’
“But to bid her begone in the Lord’s name and let go her prey-that did not cross my mind. And as we were near the church a gleam of moonlight shone on the stone wall. The dead woman glided in by the churchyard gate and Torgils ran after her, and I leaped—I was through the gate in time to see Herdis standing by the wall of the church and reaching out an arm for Torgils. I swung my axe with all my force and threw it, so that it flew over the head of Torgils and rang on the stone wall. Torgils fell flat down, but in an instant they were upon me from behind and flung me to the ground so hard that my right leg was broken in three places—the thigh, the kneecap, and the ankle.
“After that I knew no more till folk came to mass in the morning and found us. Torgils was then as you remember him—his wits were gone, and he was more helpless than a suckling, only that he could go about. If he came near edged tools he roared like a beast and fell down, foaming at the mouth—and he had been the boldest wielder of his weapons that I have known. I have been told that his hair
turned white in the very first winter.
“I lay in bed year after year with my broken leg, and in the first years the splinters of bone worked out of the wounds, and the matter ran out and stank so that I could not bear myself—and many a time I besought God, with floods of tears, to be allowed to die, for my torments seemed intolerable. But Father was with me and helped me and bade me bear it as befitted a man and a Christian. And at last my leg was healed—but Torgils knew me not when I came hither—’twas five winters after. And Olav Ribbung bade me keep away, for he could not brook seeing his nephew dragging himself about as a wreck—I went on crutches at that time—when his own son had been the cause of it.”
Olav lay awake long after the old man had fallen asleep. Favourites of fortune they had not been, the men of his race. But they had endured one thing and another—
The broken man there, asleep in his bed. His other namesake, the great-grandfather, whom he remembered living here with his grisly mad son—Olav felt warmed by a fellow-feeling with them. The aged woman, Tora, Ingolf the priest: loyal they had been, to a lost cause, to dead and doomed ones who were their own flesh and blood.
He thought of the Steinfinnssons—such, no doubt, were the favourites of fortune. Carefree, reckless folk—to them misfortune was as a poison they had swallowed. They held out till they had thrown it up again—but then they died. And tonight he saw it, fully and clearly—Ingunn too was of that sort—she too had been stricken by misfortune as by a mortal sickness; she would never hold up her head again. But it was his fortune to be so moulded that he could endure, even without happiness. His forefathers had not abandoned a lost cause—they had raised the old standard so long as there was a shred left of it. In his heart he never knew whether he regretted or not that he had accepted Earl Alf’s offer and taken his discharge from the service of his lord—but he had accepted it for the sake of the woman who had been given into his hands while both were yet little children. And he would protect her and love her, as he had protected her when a boy and loved her since first he knew he was a man—and if he got no happiness with her, since she could never be aught but a sick and useless wife, that made no difference, he now realized—he would love her and protect her to her last hour.